The Hoodooin' of Amanda King
by dittypiddler
Summary: While on a case with Lee, Amanda has a night she won't soon forget.


Title: The Hoodooin' of Amanda King

Author: Rita (dittypiddler)

Disclaimer: Scarecrow and Mrs. King belong to Shoot the Moon Productions and Warner Brothers. No infringement intended.

Summary: While on a case with Lee, Amanda has a night she won't soon forget.

Timeframe: Third season.

Rating: PG

Thanks to Chrys for clueing me in on CIA procedures, and to Cheryl and NancyY for the beta.

Feedback: Always

**The Hoodooin' of Amanda King**

"Wonder what the new case is. Didn't Mr. Melrose give you any hint?"

"Nope. Just said to get down here on the double. But he sounded pretty uptight. Guess we'll soon find out." Lee opened the door and followed Amanda into their supervisor's office. If Billy's grim expression was any indication, it was either an impending Russian invasion, or Dr. Smyth was on the warpath again. He'd rather face the former.

"What's up, Billy?" He sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk.

"I got a call from the President early this morning." Billy opened his ever-present bottle of Tums and swallowed a few. "Last month, a top secret computer disc containing something called 'Operation Spoilsport' went missing from CIA headquarters."

"You mean it was stolen, sir?"

"Yes, Amanda. Though it took those Company idiots a while to figure that out. It'd been a few weeks since anybody had logged it out. When the Director finally accessed the disc, he found a recipe for 'Aunt Minnie's Chicken Soup'!" Billy rolled his eyes. "Needless to say, _he's_ raising seven kinds of hell. And the President is _not_ happy." He slapped the Tums bottle down on his desk.

"So what's that got to do with us? Let those goofballs clean up their own mess. We've got enough to do, damn it." Lee popped out of his chair and started to pace. "Hell, some of those spooks couldn't find the men's room. And even if they did, they wouldn't share the information with the Agency. The President must've put his foot down."

"It was one of their operatives who stole the disc. If this leaks out, the President doesn't want any appearance of a cover-up. He wants us to handle it." Billy glanced at the papers on his desk. "It's taken them a month, but the CIA finally narrowed the suspects down to Justin Parker, code name Disraeli. And sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet."

Lee slumped back into his chair. "Okay, so why haven't those geniuses picked him up and sweated him?" He stopped himself from answering his own question. There were some things he couldn't say in front of a lady.

"He's dead. The same day they think the contents turned into chicken soup, Parker had a heart attack and died in his home."

"Oh, the poor man. But, sir, I don't understand. That's slow, even for the CIA. It took them that long to connect the dots?"

Billy snorted. "They screwed up, Amanda. After chasing down a few false leads, those airheads arrested an operative named Atcheson. He was the last one they determined had viewed the real disc. But he passed several polygraphs, and the three guardians--"

"Guardians?"

At Amanda's perplexed tone, Lee turned to her with a patient smile. "Top Secret material has to be logged out and viewed in a secure location, then logged back in. There're several people who watch and make sure nothing leaves that's not supposed to."

"And they all swore Atcheson couldn't have made the switch without them seeing him." Billy rested his elbows on the desk and laced his fingers. "So they were back to square one."

"All right, so what makes them so sure this Disraeli guy did it?" Lee sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"He was Atcheson's handler, and except for the higher-ups, the only person who knew all the details of 'Operation Spoilsport.'"

"Makes sense." He nodded. Parker would know the disc's value better than a subordinate.

"While the CIA was investigating the wrong man, Parker's only relative--a cousin in Idaho--sold the house to the leaders of some cult called 'The Society for the Enlightenment of the Undead.'"

"Sir, do you mean _zombies_?"

"Yes, Amanda. Zombies."

Lee brushed his hand over his forehead. "That figures. All we need. A bunch of crazies." Ah, hell. 'Spring Cleaning' was months away, and the lunatics were already crawling out of the woodwork.

Billy passed a folder to him. "Seems you could set your clock by the man's routine--"

"Sounds like you." Grinning, he opened the file. Billy's regular habits were a running joke in the Bullpen.

"Can it, Scarecrow." He scowled and dropped the Tums bottle in his desk drawer, then closed it with a bang.

"Sorry." Lee wiped the smirk off his face and sat up straighter, turning his attention to the report.

"Anyway, they managed to trace Parker's route home, and he didn't make any stops. At least they found out that much. Nobody's offered the disc for sale, so it must be hidden somewhere in that house. I've set up an interview with the new owners, Carlos and Loutishia Adamson, for this afternoon. They're leaving for some kinky convention tonight, and they're taking the butler, thank God for small favors. So scope out the place, then go back tonight and search the house."

Lee finished reading the file. "Oh, come on! We're doing an article on zombie sightings for 'Occult Magazine'? That rag? Gimme a break!" He smacked the folder on his knee. "And what do I know about zombies anyway?" Of all the covers he'd played, this one was prize-winning ludicrous.

"You've spent plenty of time in Haiti, so you should know enough about voodoo to pull it off. Besides, you and Amanda can bone up on the subject over lunch."

"Yeah, okay." He shrugged and winked at Amanda. "How about it? You up for hamburgers and zombies?"

"Phillip and Jamie watch a lot of horror movies." She grimaced, rising gracefully from her chair. "I think I know all I want to know about them."

"Don't worry, partner, I'll protect you from the boogey man." Billy's laughter followed them out the door. At least his mood had lightened. Score one for the boogey man.

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Quashing a pressing need to rub her bottom, Amanda squirmed as the scratchy upholstery bit through her slacks. If she hadn't given her coat to that weird butler, she'd have something softer to sit on. But that burly giant didn't seem like the kind of man anybody would say no to. Horsehair sofas belonged in a horror movie, not a stately--though rather rundown--Victorian mansion. Not in the twentieth century, anyway.

Well, if she had to sit here much longer, she'd have a rash. Shoot! She'd forgotten to buy lotion, and she was almost out.

While she waited to meet the Adamsons, she took stock of the long, but somewhat narrow, room. Why would anyone keep a medieval suit of armor in the living room? Gosh, that axe looked sharp. Thankfully, there were no small children in the house. On the opposite wall, the mate to this monstrosity of a couch sat next to a spindly-legged table that looked like it had come over on the Mayflower. Maybe Miles Standish had used the scarred roll-top desk in the corner. Something white nested on top of the desk, almost hidden by two musty tomes. She craned her neck for a better view.

Oh my gosh! Was that a real human skull? Amanda scooted closer to her partner and whispered, "Lee, what _are_ these people?"

He shrugged, holding out his hands, palms up. "You read their profile, so you know as much as I do. Just a couple of nutcases."

"Yeah, spooky nutcases. I half expect to see a zombie come through one of those panels in the wall. Like they do in the movies." She shivered. "Yuck."

Lee chuckled and squeezed her hand. "You watch too many Boris Karloff movies. And you didn't have to look at all those gruesome pictures, you know. Or read all that crap about voodoo and black magic."

"I wanted to be prepared. Besides, I learned a lot." Why did he always poopoo her, just for being thorough? When they interviewed the Adamsons, she should at least sound like she knew what she was talking about.

"Yeah, and now you've got zombies on the brain." He grabbed her shoulders. "Wooooooo."

"Oh, shut up." Amanda batted his hands away. "With Halloween just around the corner, this is a good cover, and you know it." She made a mental note to pick up another spool of black thread for Phillip's vampire cape. Jamie's mummy costume was almost finished. She still had to cut out the holes for his eyes and mouth.

"If you say so. I'm not into Halloween." He slouched back on the couch and laced his fingers behind his head. "We deal with enough weirdoes on the job."

Heavy footsteps plodded outside the room, sounding more like an elephant than a human.

"Sssshh. Here they come." She elbowed his ribs. "Sit up straight and look professional."

Lee's whispered grumble was cut off by the squared-jawed butler's monotone bass. "Mr. and Mrs. Adamson." He backed out the door, and Carlos and Loutishia Adamson swept into the room like some bizarre king and queen.

Mrs. Adamson's pudgy fingers almost hid her husband's lean outstretched palm, which he held at shoulder level. Her skin-tight, black dress covered her from neck to feet and accented every bulge of her body. The split hem splayed out on the floor like octopus tentacles. Her raven hair flowed to her waist, enhancing the pallor of her skin, and she wore dreadful black eye make-up and nail polish. Even her lips looked like they'd been smeared with a chunk of charcoal.

Amanda stifled a gasp. The couple must watch too much TV. That had to be pancake make-up. Nobody's skin was that ghostly pale. And what on earth kept that dress from ripping at the seams? Well, Daddy used to say you couldn't stuff fifty pounds of mud in a five-pound sack. And the lady could definitely stand to lose some mud, er, weight.

Mr. Adamson was also dressed in black. His bristly ebony mustache hovered above the toothy smile that spread his lips, and his slicked-back hair looked like it was glued to his head. He reminded Amanda of "Jack Sprat" disguised as an undertaker. Except that his wife towered over him by a good six inches.

The effect was positively ghoulish! As they stood to greet their host and hostess, Amanda blinked and exchanged a look with Lee. He gave her an "I told you so" smirk.

"Ahh, you must be the reporters." Mrs. Adamson's high-pitched chirp was a sharp contrast to her bleak appearance. "Mrs. Keene, isn't it?" She waddled over and offered Amanda her hand, as if she expected her to kiss it.

Not likely!

Amanda nodded and gave the woman's hand a slight shake. "Hello, I'm very pleased to meet you. This is my associate, Mr. Stedman. Thank you so much for granting us this interview on such short notice."

"Our pleasure, dear. We're delighted to be featured in your lovely magazine." Mrs. Adamson presented her chubby hand to Lee, and he _did_ kiss it! "Carlos and I do _so_ enjoy reading it, don't we, mon amour?" she cooed, in what must be her best seductive whine. It sounded more like a cat in heat. Or maybe a strangled chicken.

Mr. Adamson's beady dark eyes lit up like two moons. "Tish! That's French! You know what that does to me." He seized his wife's hand and began kissing her arm from her wrist to her shoulder.

Amanda's eyes widened, and she felt Lee's arm nudge her. Not wanting another smirky look, she ignored him.

"Darling, control yourself. We have guests. Please, make yourselves comfortable." She sat stiffly on the other sofa, with her husband leaning against her side and gazing at her like an adoring puppy.

Well, the woman had good posture. Mother always said that was important. Amanda settled herself on the couch close to Lee. Suddenly she had no idea how to begin this conversation and tossed him a pleading glance.

Clearing his throat, he leaned forward, rubbing his fingers over his knuckles. "Mrs. Adamson, we understand that--"

"Oh, please, call me Loutishia." Her hands fluttered, and she tittered like a grotesque canary. "Oh, dear me. I'm forgetting my manners. How naughty of me. Shall I have Crunch bring you some warm camel's milk? It's quite refreshing." She looked from Lee to Amanda.

"Ahh, no. No, thank you. We're, um, we're not thirsty." Lee shrank back, his leg bumping Amanda's knee. "We'd like to learn more about your, uh, your organization. Mrs. Keene will take notes."

"Oh, yes. Notes." She fished a pad and pen from her purse. If she wanted to appear professional, she'd better pull herself together and stop staring at these people. Her eyes must be bugging out of her head.

"So, um, Loutishia, can you tell us a little about your Society?" At least her partner sounded interested.

"Of course. Our mission in life is to bring enlightenment to the undead who walk among us. With enlightenment, comes peace. And with peace, comes joy and harmony." She waved her hands. "We want to better the existence of all the creatures of the night."

Lee cleared his throat again. "You mean, uh, zombies?"

Mrs. Adamson nodded. "All our undead friends. I'm a mambo, and Carlos is a houngan."

Okay, a mambo was a female voodoo priestess, and a houngan was a male priest. And Lee thought she was silly to memorize voodoo terms. A lot he knew.

"So how big is your membership?" he asked.

"Oh, our hounfo has over 200 members now and growing all the time. We all worship Bondye."

Hounfo was a parish, and Bondye was considered the one and only god. So far, so good.

"So you practice Rada?" Amanda scribbled notes in what passed for her shorthand.

"Oh, yes, dear. All our loa are sweet, peaceful spirits."

Now Mrs. Adamson's hands fluttered like butterfly wings. If her hands were tied, the woman probably couldn't say a word. As Loutishia chattered on, Amanda stole a peek at Lee. Despite his agent's mask, she could tell her poor partner was baffled. Good. Maybe Mr. Know-it-all wouldn't be so quick to make fun of her next time.

"So do you have any bokor in your hounfo?" She arched an eyebrow. Mr. Adamson didn't seem the type to turn people into zombies. Not that she knew what a bokor looked like.

"Oh, no." Carlos spoke for the first time since his kissing frenzy. "Our serviteurs frown on Petro."

Petro was black magic. That part was easy. But serviteurs . . . serviteurs . . . Oh, yeah. Serious practitioners of voodoo who are said to 'serve the loa' or 'follow the loa.' Thank goodness she had learned this stuff.

"Though we did witness a zombification on our last trip to Haiti, remember, mon cheri?"

"Tish!" Carlos's black moons glowed again, and he plied her arm with fevered kisses.

Amanda sighed as Lee's elbow poked her arm. Oh, boy.

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Fidgeting in her seat, Amanda stretched her legs and pressed her feet against the floorboard to ward off a cramp. They'd been parked across the street for almost an hour, watching the house. And the longer they waited, the antsier she felt. Part of her wanted the Adamsons to leave, so they could get this search over with. Another part of her dreaded entering that mausoleum again. It was eerie enough in broad daylight. In the dark, it looked downright supernatural.

Ancient streetlights, widely scattered along the sidewalk, only added to the gloom. In her opinion, the whole neighborhood was a prime candidate for urban renewal.

The rumble of thunder and streaks of lightning on the horizon signaled the rapid approach of a storm.

Great. Her nerves were already doing a tap dance. She didn't need sound effects.

Amanda sighed and turned to her partner, silhouetted in the dim glow of the nearest streetlamp. "I thought they'd be gone by now."

"So they're running late." Lee raked his fingers through his already mussed hair. "Relax, will you?"

"Yeah." Maybe he should take his own advice. The twitching muscle in his jaw matched the steady thrum of his fingertips on the steering wheel. He shifted in his seat, his eyes first scanning the street, then darting to the house, then back to the street. But patience had never been one of Lee's virtues.

She needed a diversion. Something to take her mind off her jitters. As usual, her thoughts drifted to Lee. Oh, no. This wasn't the time for _that_ kind of distraction. She laid her head back against the seat and mentally began to make out her grocery list--milk, Oaties, hamburger, tomatoes, apples, caramel . . .

A black sedan pulled up in front of the house. Amanda's head snapped up, all thoughts of candied apples forgotten.

Funny. She'd expected a hearse.

She strained to catch a glimpse of the driver through the tinted windows. A flash of lightning lit the sky, and Mr. Crunch's long frame emerged from the car. As he lumbered up the brick steps, the heavy walnut door swung open, and he vanished inside. A few minutes later, Mrs. Adamson appeared and bustled to the car, her husband scurrying behind her as fast as his short legs would allow. The butler trailed after them, laden with suitcases. After loading the bags into the trunk, he climbed into the front seat. The engine roared to life, then the car rolled down the street and disappeared around the corner.

"All right, let's get this show on the road." Lee rubbed his hands together and stepped out of the 'Vette.

Amazing how such a tall man could unfold himself from a sports car so easily. Must be the karate and kickboxing and all the other athletic stuff he did.

She joined him on the pavement and whispered, "So, do we try the back door first?" The front door was too visible. Besides, it would be like trying to open a vault.

"Amanda, you don't have to whisper, you know." He gave her one of those tolerant looks that she'd always hated. Though in the last few months, they'd been less frequent. "No, the French doors are our best bet. Stay close to me."

"Right." They ran across the street, and she clung to his hand as thunder boomed overhead and lightning seared the sky.

Brushing her blowing hair from her eyes, she crept along the side of the house behind Lee. A blast of wind sliced through the trees, striping them of their few remaining leaves, and crackled the thorny hedge that enclosed the patio. Tightening her grip on his hand, she shivered and edged closer.

As they waded through the mass of leaves to the double doors, the gusts grew stronger, whipping the scraps of red and gold around her ankles. When a lawn chair clattered to the patio's brick floor, Amanda jumped and blundered into Lee.

"Amanda, when I said to stick close, I didn't mean my back pocket." He shot her another look, an annoyed one this time.

"I'm sorry." She felt a blush flame her cheeks.

"Never mind. Just watch my rear." He pulled out his lockpicks and went to work on the door.

Watching his rear was always a pleasure, but he hadn't meant that literally. She flattened herself against the wall and scanned the area.

"There. Got it." The door clicked open, and she followed him into what must be the den. He pulled two stubby flashlights from his coat pocket and handed her one. "You take the downstairs, and I'll look upstairs."

Amanda gulped. "You mean we're splitting up?" She flinched, her flashlight wavering, as lightning split the darkness.

"We can cover twice the ground that way."

"Okay . . . but if you ask me, it'd take an army to find one little disc. Just look at this place!" She swept her light over the melange of mounted animal heads and gothic prints that cluttered the walls.

As Lee's eyes followed the beam, his shoulders drooped a bit. "I know, Amanda, but we have to try. Just do the best you can."

"Oh, I will." She took a deep breath. "But I'm glad that creepy butler's gone. That man gives me the heebie jeebies."

"Maybe he had a difficult childhood." He winked and patted her on the shoulder. "You'll be fine. Just peel wallpaper and yell if you find anything."

She trailed behind him to the stairs and stared after him as he climbed them two at a time.

Wind howled, and thunder crashed, and windows rattled.

Oh, Lord, she didn't want to be alone.

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Lord, he hated to leave her alone when she was frightened. He hated to leave her anytime they were on a case. But seeing the anxiety in her eyes and the slight tremor in her hands made it especially hard. Lee had felt her eyes on him when he'd left her.

He shouldn't have barked at her when she'd bumped into him. Amanda wasn't easily scared. She'd faced hairier situations than this with cool determination. But something had her spooked. It showed in the moistness of her palm when she'd clung to his hand. In her tight lips and tense voice. In the jerky movements of her body.

This place was enough to put anyone's nerves on edge. He hadn't counted on the storm. Even standing in the upstairs hall, he could hear it raging. The noise must be ten times louder downstairs.

Hell, he shouldn't have brought her. Or at least made her wait in the car. Yeah, right. Like she would've waited in the car.

Who was he kidding? He needed her. It'd take more than one person to search this Bates Hotel lookalike. Finding that disc was the quickest way to get her out of here. And they'd damn well better find it. Because if they didn't, the CIA boys wouldn't think twice about torching the house. Just to be sure the disc didn't fall into the wrong hands.

Lee knew what the directive "by any means necessary" meant.

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Rubbing her arms to rid herself of the goosebumps crawling up her skin, Amanda sighed and turned back to the den. Why couldn't she shake this feeling of impending doom? She'd never believed in premonitions, but ever since this afternoon, she'd felt like . . . like someone had walked over her grave.

Oh, gosh. She should never have watched "Night of the Living Dead" with the boys last night. But there was always a horror movie marathon on TV right before Halloween, and Phillip and Jamie had begged to watch. Well, the film _was_ a classic, but still . . .

'Amanda King, you're being silly. Lee's right upstairs, so stop this foolishness and get down to business.'

Now that she'd given herself a good kick in the rear, she wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and stood on tiptoe to reach above the doorframe. She stretched out her arm until her fingertips grazed the low ceiling. Good. She wouldn't have to stand on that rickety chair next to the door. That thing didn't look sturdy enough to hold a termite.

Bobbing up and down on her toes, she began to work her way along the first wall, tapping and listening for any hollow sound. Her knuckles grazed something furry, and she swung her light toward it. Two black pools glowed back at her.

She stumbled backward, almost dropping the flashlight. Oh my gosh! Pressing her hand over her fluttering heart, she aimed the light again and let out a shaky breath.

'Lions and tigers and bears. Oh, my.' Her lips curled in a crooked grin. The taxidermist had done a good job with the lion's head. Its bulging glass eyes and gaping mouth were considerably fiercer than the cowardly lion in the "Wizard of Oz." She shined her light on the rest of the mounted trophies. A zebra and a hyena chaperoned the lion and its tiger friend, followed by a snarling grizzly bear.

So where were the wicked witch's flying monkeys? Oh, boy. This place would never make a nice petting zoo.

Trying to ignore the thunderclaps and shrieking wind, Amanda edged along the wall, rapping from floor to ceiling, then moved on to the next one. She kept her light fixed on the mahogany paneling as she thumped around a moose's head, taking care not to scrape her knuckles on the jutting antlers. The routine became tedious, but she labored on, until she'd tapped up and down and around every inch of this disgusting morgue.

Then she moved the light slowly over the ceiling, side to side and front to back. Nothing but smooth plaster. Not a crease or crack in it. With her trusty flashlight clenched in her fingers, she crawled on her hands and knees over the brown shag carpet, stopping to feel under and behind every piece of furniture. She sat back on her heels and blew a lock of hair off her forehead. If there was a hiding place in this room, darned if she could find it.

Shaking her head, she trudged to the foyer and guided her light across the walls. At least there were no more jungle beasts. She sighed and started knocking and listening again. When she came to a closet, she eased the already cracked door farther open and stepped inside. Her flashlight beam met a thin rope, dangling from a single bulb in the ceiling. As she reached for the cord, she heard a loud hiss, and something black streaked from the closet shelf--straight at her.

Amanda's heart leaped into her throat, but her startled squeal burst past it. She dodged the yowling feline's splayed claws, staggering as it ran in front of her and vanished up the stairs. Gasping, she sagged against the doorframe, fanning her face with her hand. Pulling in slow gulps of air, she persuaded her heart to return to its assigned space in her chest.

This nonsense was getting a little old. Not that she was superstitious, but a black cat? Oh, come on! What next? A skeleton?

After turning on the ceiling light, she stood on her tippy toes and peered at the closet shelf. Just hats and miscellaneous junk. Her searching hands brushed against a pile of pamphlets, and they fluttered to the floor. She picked them up and paged through them. Voodoo rituals. When she replaced the leaflets, her fingers touched something slick, and she pulled down a stack of glossy prints. Yuck. More zombie pictures. As if she hadn't seen enough of the morbid things already. She scowled at the photos and shoved them back on the shelf.

When she finished thumping the closet, Amanda moved on to the living room. Rain lashed at the windows, and thunder boomed as a brilliant jolt of lightning illuminated the room. Cringing, she jumped back--and jumped again when her arm jostled the suit of armor.

"Excuse me," she mumbled, giving the knight a pat on the shoulder. With a creaking lurch, the knight's silvery arm dropped and the axe sliced the air, narrowly missing her. For the second time, her heart visited her throat. Oh my gosh! Had that thing tried to kill her?

'Oh, for heaven's sake, Amanda, don't be such a fraidy cat.' Taking a deep breath, she reined in her imagination and studied the layout.

The ceiling was higher in here. Aiming her flashlight low, she scanned the room for something to stand on and spied a gray ottoman nestled in the corner. As she dragged it over to the nearest wall, she ran her hand over the rough covering. Was that elephant hide? It sure felt like the elephant at the zoo.

Amanda stepped onto the stool and sighed. Oh, my. She was standing on Dumbo.

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"Ummpph." Grunting and panting, Amanda shoved with all her might, and the refrigerator finally thudded against the wall. Whew. That thing must weigh a ton. Wrinkling her nose, she swiped the cobwebs off her sleeves and brushed the dirt from her jeans. All that crawling around had practically skinned the denim off the knees. And she'd almost sneezed her head off from the dust bunnies.

Mrs. Adamson wasn't much of a housekeeper. Or maybe cleaning was Mr. Crunch's job. If so, the man should be fired.

Even Lee's apartment was neater. If you didn't count the science projects that were usually fermenting in his fridge. Though he'd improved a lot lately. The last time he'd cooked her one of his gourmet meals, she could actually see the furniture.

Gosh, she wished he was with her now . . . holding her hand . . . flashing those heart-melting dimples . . .

But he wasn't. So she might as well stop thinking about him . . .

Amanda sank down onto the scuffed tile, nursing her sore knuckles. Instead of relaxing in front of a cozy fire at home, she was knocking on walls and stomping on floors like some crazy person. She was tired and grungy and lonely, and she wanted to get out of this creepy house.

If Lee thought they were going to find that disc in this insult to interior design, he was whistling in the wind. She flinched as the windows rattled again. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to think about the wind, either.

So far, the assignment had been a total bust. At least on her end. The dining room had yielded zilch. Just more icky pamphlets and grisly pictures and another revolting menagerie. How in the world could people eat dinner with a gorilla head and a wolf staring down at them? Though the voodoo dolls spread out on the table were rather interesting. The blonde one had kinda resembled Francine.

Darn pins. Amanda absently sucked on her pricked finger.

Groaning, she leaned her elbows on her knees and rubbed her temples. She'd tried to be optimistic, she really had. But the butler's quarters were just too much. When she came across Crunch's collection of venomous snakes, her enthusiasm fizzled out fast. Even if they were in tanks, the tarantulas and scorpions freaked her out. And after that scrawny buzzard had swooped down from its roost . . .

No, better not think about that. Her stomach still felt a bit queasy.

Well, she sure wasn't accomplishing anything by feeling sorry for herself. Time to get back to work. She hauled herself to her feet and stretched, then picked up her flashlight and tramped to the large pantry--more shelves to scour, more walls to rap, and more floors to stomp.

Fifteen minutes later, she polished the flashlight lens against the front of her shirt, using her free hand to massage her tense neck and shoulder muscles.

"Frustration, thy name is Amanda," she muttered. Only one wall left. Then she could find her partner and maybe persuade him to abandon this fruitless search and go home.

She wondered what he was doing now.

"I love you, Lee, but . . ." She stiffened, clapping her hand over her mouth. Oh my gosh, she'd said it! Out loud, even.

Biting her lip, she shot a nervous glance over her shoulder, half expecting to see him standing in the doorway. But the room was empty, thank goodness. Breathing a sigh of relief, she slumped against the remaining paneled wall.

Suddenly there was nothing but empty space behind her.

For a split second, Amanda fought against the pull of gravity and then reeled backward, screaming as she tumbled into darkness. "_Leeeee_ . . ."

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Lee gave the wall one last thump; he felt like punching it. Damn it. In the movies, there were always secret panels in these old houses. But this wasn't the movies. He'd hoped to find a hidden niche in the largest bedroom, where he figured Parker had slept. Now it was some kind of hideous Gothic museum. Instead, the new owners had chosen this cramped, sparsely furnished chamber. Plunging his fingers through his hair, he plopped down on the four-poster bed.

"Ow!" He bolted off the bed, rubbing his backside. What the hell! He lifted the thin mattress and stared at the nails driven into the plywood underneath. No doubt these people were weirdoes, but sleeping on a bed of nails was taking weirdness to new heights. He dropped the mattress back onto its not-so-cozy resting place. As he smoothed the tiger skin bedspread, his leg jarred the nightstand, and a couple of pamphlets floated to the floor. He picked them up and flipped through them. Same old mumbo jumbo he'd found in all the other rooms.

Amanda had probably seen her share while she searched downstairs. Hopefully, she hadn't stopped to read them. She already knew enough about the subject. On the way back to the Agency this afternoon, she'd rambled on about bokors, zombification, and voodoo in general.

As he remembered the interview with the Adamsons, a smile touched his lips. A voodoo priest was one of his best contacts in Haiti. Lee had attended several meetings as part of his cover, and those incessant drums had almost driven him nuts. That case was still classified, and even though he knew all the terms, he loved watching Amanda earnestly spout her newfound expertise. Besides, he didn't want to spoil her fun. So he'd played dumb and let her handle most of the questioning.

She was so adorable when she was enthused about something. And since she was always enthusiastic . . .

'Get your mind back to business, Stetson.'

But she'd done a good job and had gleaned a lot of useful information about the couple's lifestyle and schedule, not to mention all the recent zombie sightings. He'd been very proud of her.

He wondered what she was doing now.

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'Where am I?' Holding her hands straight out in front of her, Amanda groped in the dark until she touched a solid, grainy texture. She ran her palms over it. Concrete. If she could only get turned around, maybe she could retrace her steps. Except she couldn't remember taking any steps. She'd been with Lee and . . . No, that was earlier. She shook her head to clear it. They'd separated, and she'd . . . she'd been . . .

She wasn't sure where she'd been. Well, wherever she was now, she didn't want to be here. If she followed this wall, she was bound to find her way back to Lee.

One hand after the other, she felt along the coarse wall, stumbling around unseen objects, until she smacked into a smoother surface. A door. Her fingers fumbled for the knob and turned it. When the door squeaked open, she walked through it and found herself in a maze of stone-walled tunnels, with flaming torches stuck in grooves every twenty feet or so. Oh, this was not good at all.

When she heard a bang behind her, Amanda whirled and rattled the doorknob, then jerked on it, but it didn't budge. She threw her weight against the door. Jammed. No getting out that way. Now there was no choice but to follow one of the tunnels.

But which one? She looked from right to left and back again. Left.

As she trudged along the underground passage, her sneakers made a squishing sound on the cement floor, but at least it broke the eerie silence. Rounding a corner, she spotted an arched portal at the end. Oh, thank goodness. A way out of this tomb.

Throwing caution to the wind, she sprinted to the wooden door and yanked it open. When she stepped into a small room lit with more torches, she halted in her tracks, covering her nose and mouth with her hands, while she fought back a surge of nausea.

Shelves lined three walls, and on those shelves, blanched skulls deployed in perfect rows like some macabre army. A sickening smell rose from the bubbling black-iron caldron that sat in the middle of the floor. Her common sense told her to get the heck out of here, but her curiosity overruled it. Pinching her nose between her thumb and forefinger, she peeked into the pot and immediately regretted it.

What looked like human bones floated in a pasty broth, with bits of skin and flesh still sticking to them. With a strangled cry, Amanda staggered back and listened to her common sense. She flew out the door and ran blindly down the corridor.

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Not another dead end!

'Oh, Lee, where are you?' A stray tear spilled down her cheek, and Amanda dashed it away. Crying wouldn't help her one darn bit. One weary step after another, she backtracked along the passageway and made a right turn. The ghostly shadows that flitted across the granite walls no longer frightened her. Now, only flickering torches lighted her world, and it seemed like she'd lived her whole life in these caverns. Born here and doomed to die . . .

'Stop it right now, Amanda. You can't give up.' As she wandered through the next tunnel, a strange sound reached her ears. Was that music? It was! Organ music. And where there was organ music, there had to be someone playing it!

A burst of hope quickened her pace, and she ran toward the faint light that filtered through an open door at the end of the passage. She bolted into a medium-sized room and skidded to a stop. A man sat at the organ, whacking the keys like he was swatting flies. She wrinkled her nose at the pungent, moldy scent that wafted toward her. An animal-like odor she couldn't identify. But there was nothing else here . . . Her breath caught in her throat. It . . . it must be _him_.

When she saw his face, a tiny squeak slipped past her lips. He looked like the butler. But not quite like him. This man's face was a horrid grayish color and marred by jagged scars, his movements stiff and robotic. He turned his head slightly sideways, and she met his eyes--eyes that held no sign of life. Her own eyes blinked rapidly, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"Ex-excuse me, sir. I . . . I didn't mean to disturb you." She backed away, but she couldn't stop rambling. "I . . . I'll just leave you alone now. I, um, really didn't mean to bother you."

With a sound somewhere between a grunt and a growl, he rose on stilt-like legs and stalked toward her, his massive hands reaching out for her.

Oh, dear God. Amanda spun on her heel and fled back down the tunnel.

As her feet pounded the floor, she could hear his leaden footsteps behind her, almost feel his rancid breath on her neck. But she was afraid to look back, afraid to see him.

Down one corridor. Then another. They stretched before her in an endless span of cement and stone.

Right turn. Left turn.

She couldn't lose him. He was still there and drawing nearer. Oh, Lord, she needed a place to hide--and fast.

Then, as if in answer to her prayers, she spied a door to her right. She darted through it and eased it shut as quietly as she could. After taking a moment to catch her breath, she studied her refuge. She was in some kind of crypt. Cold and damp and stale. Wooden crosses ringed a portrait of a courtly gentleman dressed in black. The man looked vaguely familiar.

Oh my gosh! He resembled Bela Lugosi in that old Dracula movie. Tearing her eyes away from the portrait, she spotted an open coffin standing on a dais in the dimly lit corner. And it was occupied--with the same man in the painting!

An icy chill slithered up her spine. No . . . her fear was making her eyes play tricks on her. There was no such thing as a vampire, with white fangs and red lips and wrapped in a black cloak.

Shaking her head, Amanda squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again. Oh, yes, there was! And she was staring down at him!

She pivoted and dashed to the door. When she saw a blurry shadow hovering on the floor under the threshold, she stopped short. Oh, no. Crunch, or whatever he was now, must be right outside. Her gaze darted from the coffin to the entrance. Certain death waited on the other side of that door. She'd take her chances with the vampire. At least it wasn't moving. Her pulse beating wildly, she tiptoed behind the casket and crouched down.

When the door creaked open, that horrible smell rocked her senses. She clapped her hand over her mouth, resisting the urge to retch. His footsteps clomped across the floor, and his heavy breathing filled the air. Cold sweat dripped down her face and neck and trickled between her breasts. She clutched her chest, praying he couldn't hear her pounding heart. Then he grunted, and his steps faded.

Was he gone? Holding her breath, Amanda peeked around the dais. No sign of him, but she was certain he hadn't given up. He was stalking her. Like a savage beast stalks its prey. When he didn't find her, he'd double back.

She poked her head out the door and looked to her right and left before racing back the way she'd come. He probably knew every inch of these caverns, so if she couldn't outrun him, she had to outsmart him. And surely, a . . . a . . . she might as well admit it . . . a _zombie_ couldn't think. For that was what Crunch had become.

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Her breath coming in short puffs, Amanda slowed to a jog and spared a glance behind her. After weaving in and out of more tunnels than she could count, she'd managed to put a little distance between herself and her pursuer. But she knew the respite would be short lived. This hunter was relentless.

She simply had to rest before her knees buckled under her. As she slunk along the wall, she bumped into a human-shaped form protruding from a niche. Any other time, she would have screamed when her eyes met the sarcophagus's flesh-colored face. But at this point, she was beyond caring. She squeezed past the encased mummy and cowered behind it, clenching her jaw to curb her chattering teeth. Her hands clutched her thighs, her nails biting through the denim jeans.

Her head sagged against the wall, and she closed her eyes, just for a second. Then she heard the hollow tone of his tread, and she scrambled to her feet. No more time to rest. Amanda ducked from her hiding place and raced down the passageway. Risking a look over her shoulder, she saw his enormous shadow eclipse the smaller ones that danced across the stone. As she veered into the next corridor, his primal grunts and groans grew louder.

Faster . . . faster . . .

But she couldn't run any faster. Her lungs burned with each dragging breath, her legs ached, and her feet felt as if they had turned to lead. She seemed to be slogging through molasses, and the harder she pushed herself, the more her pace faltered.

As she rounded a corner, the smooth texture of the stone changed to rough concrete. She stumbled a few more steps, and then the passage dead-ended.

She wheeled away from the wall, her eyes frantically searching for any nook or cranny where she could hide. But there was nothing. Nothing but cold, unyielding concrete. She was trapped.

Thud . . . Thud . . . Thud . . .

His ponderous footsteps echoed on the cement floor. She opened her mouth to scream. But no sound passed her lips. Her own breath seemed to choke her.

Her heart hammered in her chest, and the blood pounded in her ears, and she could no longer distinguish between the thunder of her fear and the thunder of his steps.

THUD . . . THUD . . .

Images flashed through her mind--Phillip, Jamie, Mother, Lee--loved ones she'd never see again.

'Oh, God, please help me.'

That awful stench enveloped her, and bitter bile rose in her throat. And then she saw him. Terror gripped her heart and body like a vise. Her muscles refused to obey her brain's commands, and she stood frozen--unable to run, unable to move, unable to scream. His shadow loomed in the torchlight as he clumped closer and closer.

Then his clammy, ham-like hands clutched her neck, and she felt her feet leave the floor to dangle in midair. She looked into his lifeless eyes, silently begging him to let her live. But he paid her no heed, and his icy fingers bit into her throat. She struggled for air, but none came. All feeling drained from her limbs, all reason from her mind, all hope from her heart.

'I'm going to die now.' It was her last thought before a red haze clouded her eyes, and she plunged into darkness.

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Lee lifted the gilt-framed portrait of Mrs. Adamson and hung the wire cord over the screws, fitting it against the panel. At least he thought she was the woman in the painting. Evidently it was an abstract self-portrait. Picasso sure as hell wasn't the artist. The landscapes and watercolors scattered along the walls looked like a drunken chimpanzee had painted them. After making sure the cluster of brushes, paints, and canvases appeared undisturbed, he climbed the stairs to the attic.

As he crossed the threshold, his leg slammed into something hard. "Ouch! Damn it!" Hopping on one foot and rubbing his shin, he located the light switch and flipped it on. Of all the stupid places to set a trunk. He heaved it away from the door and scrutinized the windowless room. Beakers filled with colorless liquids sat on a countertop, next to a Bunsen burner. Nice chemistry set, but not the right equipment for a meth lab.

He sniffed the air. Formaldehyde? He gave the containers a wide berth. If these people were cooking up embalming fluid . . . oh, man. Though "Purple Rain" was growing in popularity among street users. He grimaced. Better not mention this to Amanda. She might think the couple was brewing the drugs used in zombification.

Rows of phials filled with a powdery substance were arranged on a rack beside the counter. Cocaine? Maybe the Adamsons weren't just nutcases. Their Society would make a good front for drug runners. He'd do a follow-up investigation later, but right now he had bigger fish to fry. If he didn't find anything here, he'd have to declare the mission a failure. And then all hell would break loose.

Slapping a large spider web aside, he pushed past a pile of crates in the corner and started rapping the walls.

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Amanda slowly opened her eyes and blinked, then blinked again. Was she dead? Was this what it was like? Pitch black? Where was the beckoning light she'd heard about? Shivering, she wiggled her fingers and felt a smooth slab beneath her. She gulped. Had she gone to hell? Literally? She'd always tried to be a good person. A sob caught in her throat. She licked her lips and tasted salty tears.

But dead people didn't cry, did they? And they sure as heck didn't have one lollapalooza of a headache, or feel like they'd been run over by a truck. 'Get a grip, Amanda.' Wincing at her aching muscles, she sat up and fingered the knot on the back of her head. She must've cracked her head when he dropped her.

Oh my gosh! He'd dropped her! But where was he? Well, she wasn't going to wait to find out.

Ignoring the pain, she rolled to her knees and crawled toward what she hoped was the wall. She had to get her bearings somehow. Her trembling hands encountered something hard and round. Whatever it was rolled away from her. Forcing herself to take deep breaths, she felt for the object, finally closing her fingers around it. Her flashlight. She bit her lip to silence a cry of joy.

'Please, just let the thing work, and I'll never ask for anything again as long as I live.' When she pressed the switch, light pooled on the floor. Amanda thanked God and all the saints.

Keeping a tight grip on the flashlight, she pushed herself to her feet and cautiously moved the light around the room. On one wall, wine bottles were arrayed in racks, and wooden barrels sat against the adjacent wall. So, she was in a wine cellar. Logical thought. The beam caught the outline of a door, partially concealed by a tall rack, and she slapped her hand over the lens.

Oh, God. She'd seen that door before. _He_ was on the other side. Sucking in rhythmic breaths, she fought back the paralyzing fear that gripped her. She had to get out of here. Now.

Amanda spread her fingers, just enough to let the light peek through, and aimed the flashlight at the last wall. The flickering ray glinted on a metal door. Did she dare go through it? Whatever was on the other side couldn't be any worse than what was behind the opposite door. She tiptoed across the floor, to what she prayed would lead to safety, and turned the knob.

Locked.

Why, oh, why hadn't she brought a lockpick? She rested her forehead against the cool surface while tears streamed down her face.

Her head jerked up. 'My bra!' The underwire had poked her like a dagger all day. How could she have forgotten it? Well, she'd had other things on her mind. Like being chased by a zombie.

Maybe she could use the wire to pick the lock. She clutched the flashlight between her thighs and fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, resisting the impulse to rip it open. Willing her hands to stop shaking, she jabbed the stiff wire through the lacy material and worked it loose, then refastened her shirt. After closing her eyes and offering a plea to heaven, she inserted her makeshift lockpick and wiggled it.

Nothing.

Amanda almost lost hope. But, drat it, she was no quitter. Taking a calming breath, she carefully scraped the wire around the lock and finally found the tumblers. She pressed and felt them give. Hallelujah! She grasped her flashlight and eased the door open.

Stairs. And they seemed to go on forever.

As she started to climb, she heard the door clang shut. No turning back now. She climbed faster.

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Forty-one . . . forty-two . . .

Her flashlight beam leading the way, Amanda counted each dragging step. She'd already climbed at least three floors. It couldn't be much farther now . . .

Fifty-five . . . fifty-six . . . fifty-seven . . .

No! What _was_ this place? Another Winchester Mansion, with stairs that led nowhere? As a wave of despair overwhelmed her, she slid down the blank wall and crumpled to the floor. Burying her head in her arms, she let the tears fall. She'd come so far . . . endured so much . . .

Sniffling, she raised her head and swiped her sleeve across her face. Enough of that. Wallowing in self-pity was not going to get her out of this mess. With a couple of hiccuping breaths, she pushed herself up and banged on the wall. When it silently swung open, she gasped, her eyes widening. Closing her gaping mouth, she stepped into an alcove not much bigger than a walk-in closet.

As she swept her flashlight around the room, the beam connected with a two-drawer metal filing cabinet, then a table with--oh my gosh--a desk lamp! A real, honest to goodness lamp! She switched it on.

A box of discs, a computer, and . . .

"I don't believe it." There it was. Right before her eyes. A plastic holder labeled "Operation Spoilsport" lay on top of the modem. As she reached for the disc, the wall behind her swished shut. She jumped and heaved a weary sigh. Oh, no, not again. She should be used to being trapped like a helpless animal by now. But she wasn't, and she never would be.

When she heard a rustling sound come from behind the adjoining wall, memories flooded her mind and her stomach dropped to her shoes. Oh, God. Had _he_ found her? Her heart skipped a beat, then thudded in her chest while she desperately scanned the tiny room.

No way out and no place to hide.

The bitter taste of defeat welled up in her throat. No, damn it, she'd go down fighting. The small lamp wasn't much of a weapon, but it would have to do. She snatched it up and brandished it over her head as the wall crept open.

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That last thump had done it.

Lee shouldered the panel open and froze. "Amanda! What . . . what are you doing in here?" She looked like hell. Fear shadowed her eyes, her face was ashen, and her clothes were rumpled and dirty. "And take it easy with that lamp!" He whisked it out of her hands and set it on the table.

With a heart-rending sob, she fell into his arms. "Tunnels . . . him . . . it . . . them . . . " A jumble of incoherent words babbled from her lips. "Oh, Lee, just hold me. Please, hold me," she whimpered, hiding her face in his shirt.

"Hey, it's okay. Ssshh, I'm here now. Don't cry." He held her trembling body close, rubbing her back and stroking her hair until her muffled sobs subsided. "Amanda, tell me what happened. How did you get in here?"

She shook her head against his chest, then straightened and pulled away from him, wiping her eyes. "Not . . . not now. The disc . . . I found it. It's right over there." She pointed to the modem.

"Well, I'll be damned." He slipped his arm around her waist and hugged her close to his side. Reluctantly dragging his mind back to his job, he cupped her chin and looked into her eyes. "Will you be all right for a minute while I check it out?" Though he hated to let go of her, even for a second.

When she nodded, he turned on the computer and inserted the disc. "Access Denied. Please enter password" flashed on the screen. He typed in the numbered code Billy had given him--with a stern direct order to forget those numbers, and anything else he saw, once he'd verified the contents. Printed words filled the screen, and he quickly read them.

"Oh . . . my . . . God." His gut twisted. He sat there, stunned. "Operation Spoilsport" was aptly named. If the U.S. lost a nuclear war, dozens of missiles held in reserve would be automatically triggered and launched at the Soviet Union. It would redefine the words "nuclear holocaust."

Lee shuddered at the image and buried this unwelcome knowledge in the deepest, darkest corner of his mind. He'd been ordered to forget it, and he hoped that someday he could. When he felt Amanda's hand on his arm, he jumped and clicked the file closed.

"Should you be reading that?"

"I had to verify it. But you definitely shouldn't read it." He removed the disc and placed it in the plastic holder, then slipped it into his jacket pocket and switched off the computer.

"I don't want to. Can't we just get out of here now?" Her voice quavered.

He frowned and turned to her. She kept twisting her hands together and looking over her shoulder, as if she expected the devil himself to appear. Though her cheeks had regained a faint hint of color, fear still haunted her eyes. What the hell had happened to her? Well, he'd find out later. One way or another. But right now he had work to do.

"Go in the other room and wait for me. I'll be there in a minute." For once, she didn't argue and ran from the cubbyhole. He shook his head and began to unplug the wires and unhook the mainframe. The CIA geeks would want to take the harddrive apart. No telling what other secrets it contained. He'd better take everything. It'd be a tight fit, but he could cram it all into the 'Vette's trunk.

He lugged the modem into the attic and set it next to the door. When he went back for the monitor and the rest of Parker's cache, he glanced at Amanda. She stood leaning against the wall, with her arms tightly crossed.

As he passed her, Amanda caught Lee's troubled look and drew a raspy breath. She'd never fallen apart like that before, but she'd just been so relieved to see him and . . . Well, she'd better compose herself. He had enough on his mind without worrying about her. And she was safe with him now. But she couldn't tell him what happened. Or what she thought had happened. She wasn't sure anymore. If it was a dream, he might laugh.

No, he wouldn't laugh. He was too sensitive to her feelings. But he'd humor her and give her that indulgent smile. The one that always made her feel like a foolish child. And if it wasn't a nightmare or hallucination . . . she really didn't want to think about it. She shuddered. Either way, she didn't want him to go into that cellar.

If only he'd hurry up. Her head ached like the dickens, and every muscle in her body screamed for a long soak in a hot bath. One thing for sure. She'd never watch another horror movie.

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Lee shoved the last of Parker's equipment into the trunk and closed the hatch. As he slid into the driver's seat, he studied Amanda's strained expression. While they'd carried the evidence out to the car and loaded it, she'd calmed down a lot, but he still hadn't seen her smile. And she refused to tell him what or who had terrified her. Okay, he'd give her a little space for now. But later he'd make it his personal mission to find out, and if it was a who, he'd track him down and rip his heart out.

"Ready to do what one shepherd said to the other shepherd?" He reached over the console and covered her hand with his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

"What's that?"

"Let's get the flock outta here." He winked. She seemed to sense his need to brighten her mood and rewarded him with a small but reassuring smile.

He eased the Corvette away from the curb and drove toward D.C. and the Agency. As they sped along the highway, he called Billy on the car phone and told him they had the package and would deliver it ASAP. The hard disc in his pocket felt like a ticking bomb. And he wanted it out of his possession as fast as possible. He gunned the 'Vette.

Tearing his mind away from the disc, he glanced at his partner. Some music might help raise her spirits--and his. When he switched on the radio, Amanda's loud gasp overshadowed the male voice blaring through the speakers.

_. . . don't you know she's been hoodooed . . . by the power of the voodoo . . . _

The End


End file.
